


The Adventure of the Sex-God Pants

by Fyliwion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Masterbation, PWP, Red Pants, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:37:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyliwion/pseuds/Fyliwion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John never did find out why Sherlock Holmes felt the need to steal his pants, nor did he quite understand the significance less than an hour before their flight for a case. </p><p>Lucky for him? </p><p>He had a stash Sherlock knew nothing about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Sex-God Pants

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the red pants challenge on tumblr.
> 
> I'm afraid it was done a bit hasty, and no it didn't have the opportunity to be be brit-picked. A bit cracky-- you've been warned.

* * *

  

It began with John, an experiment, and the doctor finding himself in a state of utter and complete fury.

Truthfully it was a rather inaccurate description of what John was feeling. The doctor had no doubt Sherlock could provide a variety of far better expletives that would describe the precise emotion that he was currently drowning under.

Regardless, this was the final straw.

He ran his fingers along the inside of the drawer one last time. Behind, underneath, hell he even went diving into laundry he hadn’t touched for months distinctly remembering, hoping that there at least he might find luck. That perhaps he was mistaken.

Nothing.

Not so much as the remnants of a deteriorating bathing suit.

When a person has eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable must be the truth.

Or something like that.

The truth was, Sherlock had stolen them all.

And if Sherlock was nothing else, he was thorough.

The detective failed to lift his head as the top door slam. He continued staring down at the beaker as John’s heavy steps slowly descended towards the floor. The infuriating man didn’t so much as blink even as John stopped a table’s length away, hands held behind his back, eyes glowing in anger.

He coughed.

Once.

Twice.

_Blast him._

John’s eyes bore into Sherlock’s head, as the man swirled a thick blue liquid (the remnants of his favorite pair? The ashes perhaps mixed with formaldehyde?) Frankly John thought it was a rather poor attempt at ignoring him, but then how did you deny a crime on the scale of what his flatmate had committed in a period of less than twelve hours?

They were at a stand-still and eventually Sherlock’s shoulders tensed. John failed to move, years of training in the military making the maneuver far too easy as the detective was begin to grow increasingly uncomfortable.

And there, a flicker of eyes that met John’s for no more than a moment as they dropped back to the beaker, and then an unintelligible grunt that was more fitting for a petulant child.

“I imagine you _want_ me to go on this case with you Sherlock?”  John supposed he should begin the conversation seeing as how the genius was giving him the silent treatment.

“..…”  
  
“After all, you did phone my work informing them I had caught an infection and would be indisposed. You cancelled my date with Susan. You had Mycroft buy us tickets, and you paid for the bloody B&B  with _my_ credit card. No refunds,” his voice was steel, taking the same intonation that was undeniable the Captain.

“…Mm.”

Of course, it was only sensible that he wouldn’t receive a useful response. A person could hardly expect otherwise of the damn genius, too sharp to waste his brilliant brain on anything mundane. John felt his fury building, “Lestrade will of course be here within the hour to drag us to the airport-“

Sherlock waved his hand toward the door, eyes steady on the beaker, “The bags are there. “

John wished he could climb over the table and hit him. If the damn table wasn’t between them he probably would hit him, “Fan- _fucking-_ tastic.  Bugger the bags.” He took a deep breath as he leaned over the table eyes boring it into him.

 “ _Where are the pants Sherlock?_ “

The sound echoed through the flat. Silence settled in, and for a moment there was nothing but the deep, ragged breaths that John inhaled slowly as he grabbed the table.

“Not important.”

 “Not important…” John repeated the words to himself. Furious? What had John been thinking? He was beyond any description of the word, his anger grew cold as his voice dropped, “No. No, no, no Sherlock. I can accept the head in the fridge, the fingers in the toaser, even arsenic in my last package of custard creams, but _this?”_ He looked down unsurprised to see his hands _not_ shaking. “This is-“

“Really John, no need to get shirty.”

“Shirty? Shirty!? _Shirty_ was when you spilled acid on my favorite jumper. _Shirty_ was when you used my wool trousers as bandages. _Shirty_ was when you _melted_ my favorite coat. This? This is unforgivable. This is- just answer the damn question Sherlock! _Where are my pants??”_

More silence and then…

“Experiment.”

“And?”

“Dangerous. The remains needed to be disposed of,” he looked up, grey eyes wide as he studied John with something that could only be remarked as perplexity. John had been gathering himself to begin yelling again, but with the lost look on his flatmate’s face he felt much of his anger dissipate.

“Right. Yes. Experiment. And I suppose you couldn’t use your own?”

There it was, that look of condescension and the unasked question of ‘ _how stupid are you?’_ Funny how quickly his anger could return.  “Obviously not. Silk was far from the correct fabric. I needed synthetic and cotton blends that were well worn. Given my own trouser often fit better without wearing-“

“Enough Sherlock.”

Which of course had never stopped him before, “Arguably yours needed replacing anyway. As well as the obvious factor that given you are more sexually active, and I was testing the luminosity of seman stains on-“

Which was where John’s limit ended, “No. Stop. That’s-  Just no Sherlock.” He buried his left hand into his hair, “Just… Next time? Ask. I would have _given_ you a pair if you had, but bloody hell—was it necessary for… no really don’t answer it.”

“I had no intention of doing so.”

“Good.”

Only that left him where he always stood, compromised. He compromised his job, his dates, his drinking, and even his sex life for the benefit of Sherlock Holmes… and now? Now he was out of _pants_ , before taking a weekend trip to go on a case for the man, and….

“And Sherlock?”

“Mmm?”

“The minute we get back? Pants.”

* * *

 

So it was they ended up there… on the street… in the only remaining pants that John felt safe to squeeze into.

In retrospect John rather suspected the whole thing was simply an elaborate scheme for Sherlock to get John fully naked.  The doctor suspected it might have been less climatic if that were the case, embarrassing, but painless. Except that in Sherlock’s made search to rid John of his pants, he had failed to find what John called ‘the stash.’

He had very few things he might call dear, and while ‘the stash’ was hardly that they had travelled with him through a war in back. They were hardly special even if they were sentimental. A pair of boxers Harry had bought him as a prank at her bachelorette party (“Oiy! You’re my man of honor! Only fair I get you something too! I though the lace was flattering!”). There were the pants from his rugby days (“Wear them every game! Sure to win if I do!”).

Then there were ‘The Pants.’

The Red Pants.

He found with his mates three days before deployment to Afghanistan. They had been blindingly drunk when they stumbled across them. Fifty quid which was enough to make anyone drunk stop and have a laugh, but then some bloke at the store explained how they were Beckham’s favourite pants. Guaranteed by the sex god himself to get you laid every single time.  

Special discount of only fifty quid.

One pair left.

Young, drunk, and about be deployed to a foreign war? They had split the cost and agreed to battle to the death for them over a game of poker.

They would be the trophy of the sex god.

They would be ‘The Red Pants.”

Damn if John wasn’t known as ‘Three C Watson” for a reason.

The pants were his, his title remained unscathed, and The Red Pants remained as trophy to his manhood.

A trophy that he found had grown a bit snugger over the years (not that they hadn’t been a tight fit that first night he’d tried them on. Bill swore his still had a photo, John was rather certain he’d destroyed all evidence.)

And unfortunately he was stone cold sober, while standing before half the bloody yard in the fucking things.

It was Sherlock of course. The man was a disaster. John could barely tell you how he ended up wearing nothing but his damn red pants in front of the whole yard while Sherlock looked only mildly better with his trousers ripped, buttons torn off his mauve shirt and dripping wet. To add insult to injury, Sherlock’s eyes slipped over his pants, and stayed firmly fixated over the bulge (at least there was nothing to be ashamed of there) as it fought to be free of a pair of pants he bought nearly a decade before.  

Lestrade was unbearable. He gave a low whistle, “Have to admit I didn’t take you for the type John. Anderson’s bringing you over a shock blanket. We’ve been wanting a picture for our calendar… matching set to go with Sherlock’s you know. Drape it around your shoulders—maybe have you lean against—“

“Sod off.”

It hardly helped given how the DI was obviously fighting to hold back his laughter,  “Why I think we’d have to give you December with that lovely shade of red and I suppose Sherlock might make a nice February with his mauve shirt—“

“Greg I’m warning you-“

“And then of course there’s the—“

“I mean it.”

“ I admit the colours a bit off putting, but suppose it might be a turn on to some people. Definitely shows your-“

“I swear to God Greg. They trained me how to use a gun in the military, and I’ve got the flatmate to hide the body.”

There deep ragged  breaths as Lestrade could no longer holder back the laughter. “But John they’re—“

John refused to listen to the rest, or rather he suddenly  found it impossible to do so. His eyes had glanced back to Sherlock, and suddenly he found it impossible to look away.

His face.

Oh dear God.

The tip of the man’s tongue gently ran across his upper lip to the man’s obliviousness and John felt himself tense under the scrutiny.

Right. Not gay. This was his flatmate, his best friend, surely Sherlock had no idea of what he just did and John had no reason to think that the man…

_Sherlock’s dark  curls buried his lap, with those soft sensitive lips pushing against the fabric. Hot breath ghosting over his…_

_Oh Fuck, no._

He must have said it out loud as both Sherlock and Lestrade looked at him startled, “Er that is…“ And suddenly John was painfully aware that he was half hard and straining against the already too tight pants.

Obvious due to the pants.

Damn if at least half a dozen eyes weren’t on his pants.

  _War John! Death! A murder! Think of something… Harry?  Afghanistan? Last week’s trip to the morgue?_  Which only led to more awkward images of his flatmate and _Fuck!_ He was harder.

 His therapist would have a field day.

“Bugger off!” he yelled as more sniggers erupted from the crowd. He ignored the catcalls and come ons as he shouted “Trousers!” walking towards the truck.

“I’m getting trousers damn you all! Trousers!”

He was going to kill Sherlock.  

-.-.-

That might have been the end of it, but the problem with something is once the image is in your head It’s impossible to get rid of.

John’s sexuality had always been rather straight forward (to pardon the pun). He liked woman.

It was not to say he had not _tried men_. He had. Twice. He’d even sat for two days straight with a mate going through gay porn in an attempt to help the man come to terms with the other man’s sexuality.

It was an experience that had proven painstakingly boring, and the only time he’d been turned on had been a French crossdresser he had been certain was a woman until the skirt came off, after which the mood was killed rather… instantaneously.

Of course Sherlock-bloody-Holmes would be the exception.

He lay on the hotel bed thankful that Sherlock had gone out (John had reminded him of his duty to retrieve pants, but suspected he might as well have asked for milk).

With the safe guard of a missing detective, John let his hand run over the front of his pants. His initial plan had been to shuck them, but God the expression on the detective’s face when he’d stood there.

He tried to think of something, anything, breasts were good after all. Large ones, DD? No triple… _on a young ripe woman with dark hair that curled. Smaller breasts then, flat really, tall and all legs that she wrapped around him and in a deep voice murmured._

Dear Lord…. He was truly, deeply buggered.

The thoughts came unbidden: Sherlock with his dress shirt rolled up and buttons torn. Sherlock’s nipples stark against his skin as his shirt slipped off. Sherlock _with his face buried into John’s lap, first nipping at the too tight fabric, and then making it’s way through the slit in the pants, freeing his erection as he whispered the man’s name and…._

“Sherlock….” He groaned.

The door slammed, John’s fingers tightening as he flew up to stare at a disheveled Sherlock standing in the door.

“Ah. I-“He was gasping, hard in his hand with his erection half out of The Red Pants. If the situation had been less serious he might have laughed. Funny how that always was the ending of wearing The Red Pants.

Sherlock swallowed. John felt his pulse quicken and the man cleared his throat uncomfortably as he shifted in the door way. His buttons were still opened, damn him, and his hair even wilder from his impromptu wash.  “I hardly see why my presence should dissuade you from a wank. By all means… continue”

“Sherlock-“ the sound was strangled from John’s throat.

The detective remained frozen in the door way, his eyes never leaving the pants. His voice had been calm and calculating, but even John heard it catch when he continued, “Would you be adverse to me watching?” Sherlock’s eyes were wide, and his mouth immediately shut as though he realized what he had just asked. An almost horrified expression fell across in it’s place, and for a moment John though the man might turn and run as he went on to babble, “An experiment. It may be pertinent to a case that I have been working. The pants of course. First hand knowledge would not be adverse. I find it would make a fascinating study.”

John’s fingers steadied. It was like being drunk in someways, and if they’d been in Baker street, in his regular pants he would never have continued, but God they were more than a hundred miles away in a posh hotel room (that he had paid for), and the look on Sherlock’s face as he made the argument so calmly.

And well damn! Weren’t they his trophy pants, assured by the sex god himself to make any woman and or man come in their presence?

He began long strokes, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s face. John’s tongue trailed over his lips, and his fingers went lower, slipping inside as he ran his nails over his balls. “You still owe me pants-“ he said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock nodded mutely, sitting in the chair at the end of the bed eyes fastened on John’s hand. He his fingers were locked together, the same look he had on an especially trying case. He worried his tongue between his lips, and John felt an involuntary shudder push through him.

Bloody hell, he was going to come already.

“ _John…”_ murmured Sherlock, and  of course the man sounded like he’d taken lessons from some porno. For that matter  John supposed it was the most likely circumstance given he was probably a virgin (and wasn’t that even more of a turn on?)

There was the sound of a zip and John opened his eyes enough to watch Sherlock try to stealthily slip his own fingers inside his trouser. The strokes were fast, erratic, as the detective obviously tried to get off as quickly as possible.

John fought to hold back.

It was undeniably gay, and the hottest thing John had done in years.   

Sherlock’s name escaped him as he came. The whole thing should have taken another fifteen minutes at least, but the sight of the other man leaned back over the chair, hand around his seeping cock as he fought to keep John’s name off his lips was too much. John arched back into the bed fighting to come away from his pants and failing miserably. Not that he could think with Sherlock coming just on the other side of the bed, John’s names tumbling over in a mantra.

He supposed this meant there was definitely no point in denying the relationship bit anymore.

Surprising (or perhaps unsurprisingly) John could care less.

Although…if Sherlock had just caused him to ruin his last pair of pants (The Red Pants godammit) John was going to kill him.

Or fuck him.

_Bloody Hell._

 

 

* * *

 

“Really John? They looked nice and all but I think it’s a bit much,” said Mycroft pointing with his umbrella to the wall next to the Cluedo bored nailed into it.

“Ask Sherlock,” muttered the man with a biscuit in his mouth. “It was his idea.”

“And Mrs. Hudson?”

“Think’s it’s adorable.”

“…..suppose she would.”

Framed carefully (John refused to let Sherlock drill them straight into the wall, they could at least get the bloody things behind glass), were mounted The Red Pants, proudly placed in their prize spot behind the couch.

Above, in bright red spray paint, “In Case of Emergency.”

“Oh and Mycroft?” added John as an afterthought.

“Yes?”

“Do remind your brother he still owes me. That was my last pair.”

 


End file.
